Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Jace
Fuck, I want to kiss the befuddled look off her face.
But Brooks’s words have been running through my head nonstop since we spent the evening together.
So, when I got the text from security telling me that Marie was back—and with a suitcase in hand—I didn’t hesitate. I closed down my computer, made a couple of key stops, and then headed straight home. Or well, straight here.
“You sure you don’t want to share your snacks, gorgeous?” I ask as I set the bag on the counter and start pulling out what I brought. “I think you might change your mind.”
She doesn’t reply right away, and I chance a look up, see that she’s staring at the open door like it’s grown a second head.
Then she seems to shake herself, shutting the door and turning to face me.
Turning to glare at me.
“What are you doing here?”
“You’re officially moving back in?” It’s a question, but one I already know the answer to—mostly because I signed off on the invoice for the work today.
There’s a long pause.
Then she sighs. “Yeah,” she mutters.
“Smells like paint.” I don’t like that, don’t like that she might be exposed to the fumes, that she might hurt herself.
Something crosses her face—like she sees the thoughts running through my mind, as though she knows I don’t like it. But all she says is, “I opened a window and it’s better already.”
I inhale, trying to test that for myself.
Then I weigh whether or not I can convince her to come down the hall and stay at my place, where there aren’t any fumes.
Then I stifle a snort.
Yeah, like I’m going to win that battle.
So, I turn back to my bag, pull out the rest of my food.
It’s nothing fancy, not expensive, just good quality pastries from Molly’s bakery, some wine that a work colleague gave me, and some?—
“Ramen?”
The word is filled with awe, said softly, but close to me, right near my ear.
Victory bubbles up in my chest.
She likes ramen. Fuck, yeah. Does a large portion of the world also love the dish? Well, yes. But Marie clearly likes it and I brought it, so I may as well have climbed Mt. Everest.”
“You changed your mind then?”
Her brows drag together, one unruly curl escaping and curling over her cheek. “About what?”
“About sharing your snacks.”
Her face relaxes, eyes flicking to the side. I follow her gaze, see the plate balanced on top of a pile of pillows and blankets. Cheese and bread and—thank God, I stopped for pastries—an apple covered in caramel and M&Ms.
My girl has a sweet tooth.
Well, I have something for that too.
“I don’t know,” she says, never backing down from the challenge. “My cheese is really good and that’s the last of my apple.” A lazy shrug. “Plus, the bread is freshly baked from Molly’s.”
“Well”—I reach for the brown bag—“these are freshly baked from Molly’s and they have apples.” I pull out the trio of apple cinnamon muffins. They’re still warm, from one of the last batches of the day, and my stomach rumbles when my nose catches wind of the spicy scent.
“Are those apple cinnamon muffins?” It’s a greedy question and a bolt of triumph shoots through me.
I nod, break off a piece, and shove it into my mouth, moaning when the flavor explodes on my tongue. “Sure is,” I say once I’ve chewed and swallowed. “What’s that worth to you?”
“A blow job.”
I choke on the second bite I’d shoved into my mouth, coughing as I try to clear my throat.
And not missing that her expression becomes triumphant.
That feeling is going around—too bad hers is because I’m slowly dying due to a delicious baked good.
“Drink,” she murmurs a few moments later, taking pity on me and setting a wine glass in front of my hand.
I scoop up the glass, guzzle back the wine, knowing that it’s a good one, but unable to enjoy it.
Because…still slowly dying.
“You know, if you choke to death in my kitchen, the blow job is off the table.”
I start coughing anew, but I do it glaring at her. “So…not…helping,” I manage to rasp out when my throat begins to relax.
“You’re the one who barged into my home,” she says sweetly.
“So you don’t want the ramen?”
Her eyes narrow and then she leans down and considers the label, snagging the one with the egg and pork broth—so noted. “Saving your life with the glass of wine is more than a tradeoff for ramen.”
“Are we ignoring the fact that you made me choke in the first place?”
“Are you really that much of a prude between the sheets that talk of a blow job scandalizes you?”
I snake out an arm, draw her flush against me. “I think you know exactly who I am between the sheets, cookie.”
Her lips part, and I feel it then, the way her body melts against mine, the siren’s call of her desire, the memories of naked skin and lush curves and slick, slick heat.
But I didn’t come here for this.
I don’t just want a quick orgasm and to watch her curls bounce as she disappears out the door—or sends me packing.
I want more.
I want to know who she is beneath the confident, stubborn, gorgeous facade.
So, when her lips part, silently inviting me to taste, and her body melts further, plastering all those soft curves against me, I don’t accept the silent invitation, don’t take what’s so clearly being offered.
Instead, I tamp down the need coiled tight in my belly.
When something beautiful lands in your lap, don’t fucking waste it.
I’m not going to.
Not today.
Not ever.